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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22390456">are you dangerous?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizord_of_oz/pseuds/thelonely'>thelonely (wizord_of_oz)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beauty and the Beast Elements, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Human/Monster Romance, Kidnapping, M/M, Monsters, Slow Burn, Victorian, eventually lol, i guess?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:06:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,684</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22390456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizord_of_oz/pseuds/thelonely</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>High on the hill and far from the village—but not far enough, most would tell you—there is a monster. The Archivist is a creature of solitude, stares, and siphoned secrets, doomed to watch life but never live it.</p><p>But when Martin Blackwood stumbles into the Archivist’s dangerous and lonely existence, he finds that the horror on the hilltop may be more human than previously thought. </p><p>[Inspired very loosely by Beauty and the Beast.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>120</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>are you dangerous?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>High on the hill and far from the village—but not far enough, most would tell you—lives a monster. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a story that the village children beg to hear and elders begrudgingly share at feasts and around campfires: the year that the Watcher began to gaze down on the town.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The castle on the hilltop had been there for a while before him, unused. No one dared take up residency within it; tyrannous blood had been spilled there only but a decade ago, and the castle was left to the ghosts. Until one day, when another creature came to haunt it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>People originally thought it was merely a man. Just a penniless peasant, unafraid of history and looking for a place to stay, free of charge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then people went to go speak with him, and found what was on the hilltop was not human at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They came back speaking of being Known. Of their secrets and fears being extracted, of shadowy figures and revisited traumas. Of eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then townspeople started being taken, then returned en masse. But they all came back different than before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>People refused to go outside at night, to leave their homes, to be alone. A layer of fear blanketed the town, and the horror on the hilltop blazed through people in a frenzy for a year, before dropping to a more regular schedule. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the frequency of feeding declined, the townspeople began to work out a code of conduct that brought more normalcy, more security to their daily routine: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stay central in the village at night. Ration oil or you’ll be left lightless at the end of the month, on the nights you need it the most. A prayer before one goes to sleep, a blindfold to wear while in bed. Group meetings for those that had been fed from. Armed guards at all entrances to the village. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, without fail, the Watcher will claim a victim every month, near the full moon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re not sure how he does it. Some say that he lurks in the shadows, can sink under doors and dwell between torchlight until he finds who he’s looking for. Others claim that he can change faces—that he could appear to be a familiar face on the street until suddenly, he isn’t. A small number claim that he has mind control; he scours the village for a fault in an unlucky soul’s mental armor and bleeds his way in, dragging them unwillingly to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The victims don’t die, but some of them wish they had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They won’t recall much: a repressed memory rising to the surface, a compulsion to narrate. A shape in front of them, watching them—and the eyes. They all mention the eyes. Mismatched, bloodshot, unmoving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then come the dreams. Reliving their worst memories, their darkest moments, all while the shape watches. For the rest of their lives, no less. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, the village had attempted to slay this beast. They knew exactly where to find him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first time, the monster simply wasn’t home. The villagers opened the door and found an empty foyer, an empty castle. There was no attempt to even lock the villagers out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next time, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> there. And although the entire party returned physically unscathed, the mental toll was immense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody chose to question the decision to have no third expedition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thus, the monster on the hilltop goes about his life, cursed but undisturbed, for 20 years—maybe more. No one can quite remember. And the village thrives despite (or perhaps in spite of) him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For 20 years, the monster watches life pass on below him—cursed only to watch and never to partake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has important work to help fill the time, but he grows bitter all the same.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a cold and clear winter night, and Martin Blackwood has lived too many years in this village to start disobeying the spoken and unspoken safety rules now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, his mother—in one final act of defiance—chose to die the night of a full moon and in the next town over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it is with </span>
  <em>
    <span>great </span>
  </em>
  <span>regret that he finds himself preparing his cart and throwing his black cloak over his shoulders. His mind is surprisingly clear; he faces his mother’s nearing demise with more calmness than he thought he had within him, opting to worry more so about the journey that comes first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There isn’t really anyone to bade farewell to, here in the village. No one to scold him for leaving at </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> hour, on </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> night. No one to reassure that he’ll return. No one to even question his disappearance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flips the sign over on his storefront—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Be back soon!</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and hoists himself into the driver’s seat. Paper crinkles in his coat, and he pats the pocket absentmindedly to check for a pen. The path to the next town over is relatively clear, and he hopes the second half is smooth enough that he can draft up something for his mother during the ride, be it a goodbye or a eulogy. She never really loved his poetry, so he’ll refrain from that this time, for her sake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lights twinkle in all the windows as he clicks his tongue and gives the reins a tug. The horse snorts in half-hearted protest and the cart jerks into motion, bouncing on the cobblestone. Stone gives way to dirt, and the procession passes under the village’s arching gate, past two uncaring guards that pay him nearly no mind, and into the barren woods beyond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin knows the path well: right by the base of the hilltop, and then a right turn at the river bend and a straight hour's ride into the next town. He’s traveled this path for years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the tension that knots in his stomach is stronger than ever as he gets closer and closer to the castle. He normally only dares to make this trip in broad daylight. And the Watcher has yet to claim someone this month. In all likelihood, he’s probably out looking for his victim right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trees stand uncomfortably far apart, their leaves shed long ago. They tower over him like skeletons, lengthy branches brushing against his coat like hands. He finds himself too on edge to do anything to dodge them, instead scanning the sea of trunks for beasts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fingers squeezing the reins like a lifeline, Martin sits ramrod straight and merely watches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is eerily still. The wind is stagnant and the woodland creatures have fled, either from the cart or from the more ominous beast dwelling in the woods. The air is crisp around him and the only noise for miles is the rhythmic clop of horseshoes and the bounce of the cart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, after about twenty minutes weaving around the hill base, it looks as though he’s in the clear. The full moon bleeds through the stick-like trees and frames the silhouette of the castle, and the road is devoid of any sound or motion, save for himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin, in a moment he would come to deeply regret, begins to loosen his grip. He releases one hand and begins to fumble in his pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The castle is out of his immediate line of sight, at this point. Its presence hovers behind him, but the path ahead should be safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One hand steering and one hand flattening the paper against his thigh, Martin begins to brainstorm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mum,” he dares to murmur, before he makes a small </span>
  <em>
    <span>tsk</span>
  </em>
  <span> and crosses it out. ‘Mum’ feels too informal. ‘Mother’ is too formal, but probably his best bet. But he pauses there, bringing the back of his pen to his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How do you address someone that’s dying?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he finds himself wondering.</span>
  <em>
    <span> How do you address someone who </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>hates</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> you and won’t admit it, and is dying? Tell them it’s okay? That you know? How do you reminisce with a mother who you share no fond memories with? Will she even hold out for me, before she lets go—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He spots it out of the corner of his eye, a heartbeat too late: long, knife-like fingers curl around the trunk of a nearby tree and his horse rears in terror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pen falls from his hand and he topples sideways in the cart, one arm bracing himself against the wood and the other yanking the reins. The horse rears again and, with a burst of fear-fueled energy, jolts forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin, in his infinite grace, rolls fully from the cart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He falls three feet, only narrowly avoiding bashing his head in on the wheel. His back slams into the dirt before his head, and his eyes roll in their sockets and focus just barely well enough to watch his cart and horse sprint off down the road. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A noise of terror leaks its way out of his mouth before he claps a dirtied hand over it. Breathing as heavily as he dares, he struggles his way back upright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he hit his head harder than he initially thought, but the world begins to spin around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, not spin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Twist.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As he watches, the path in front of him branches in a hundred different directions. The strands twirl inwards, like a sick kaleidoscope, and new path after new path splits off of the spiraling mass. Martin spins with it, desperately trying to pick out the correct one, the one that will take him to safety. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My mind is playing tricks on me,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he tells himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s panicking, and I need to stop and take deep breaths and steady myself before I proceed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But as he tries to breathe, to reorient himself, the paths keep multiplying and twisting. Trees curl inwards on themselves and the ground beneath him begins to twirl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And deep down, Martin knows what evil looks like. The evil he already knows is the only thing here </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> twisting: the castle sits stationary on the hilltop, silhouetted in moonlight and watching on as if mocking him. He’s lived in the shadow of evil for as long as he can remember. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This… spiraling? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is also evil. A different flavor, an unfamiliar flavor—but evil, regardless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something sharp and spindly moves in his peripheral vision, and terror starts to choke him. He closes his eyes and forces himself to think.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If I stay here, I’ll die,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his brain feverishly spits at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And if I go to the castle, I’ll live. Scarred, albeit, but I’ll </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>live.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Logical Martin finds this to be a difficult decision, but instinctual Martin sends him fleeing the paths altogether and racing up the hill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He weaves between barren trees, wheezing as he places one foot after the other. The hill is steep, and he’s in no athletic condition for this kind of incline; and yet, while adrenaline makes him jerky, it gives him the push to keep climbing. His pursuer is silent, but he can feel their presence twisting the trees as they play cat and mouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he runs, he finds himself pleading: </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe he won’t be there. This is the night he hunts, right? Maybe he’s not in the castle. Maybe I’ll be able to wait out whatever </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>this</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> is, and sneak out before he returns. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe this will turn out okay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe I’ll be okay. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This distracting line of thought is enough to make him miss the root protruding from the ground. It hooks around his foot and he topples. Rocks bloody his palms and his ankle throbs angrily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as Martin looks down, he sees the offending root begin to curl its way up his leg. With a shout of panic, he yanks, freeing his ankle but unrooting the plant with it. His hands sting as he pushes himself back upright, but after a few wobbly steps, he’s on the move once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crest of the hill rises up in front of him. The trees begin to thin out, but the ones ahead start twisting more rapidly, blocking his path. He tears through them, flailing his arms and beating the branches out of his way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breaks the treeline, feet pounding against old uneven stone as he sprints towards the foreboding castle ahead. Trees rustle behind him and he doesn’t dare look back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doors are smoothed and shiny with age; intricate patterns twist around their frames, and the knocker is a simple symbol: an eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin barely registers these decorations before he pushes into the door with all his might—and then tumbles forward when they open without resistance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands slap against tile and he clambers his way deeper into the room, away from the open door. He braces himself for the worst: for something to thud its way through and drag him back outside, kicking and screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nothing does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The outside is as silent as it had been mere minutes before: no wind, no animals, no… nothing. The world is still, as if whatever evil outside didn’t dare infringe on the evil within here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin sits upright, on guard and watching for changes outside. He waits five minutes—or maybe an eternity. He isn't sure.</span>
</p><p>Then, and only then, does he allows himself to flop onto his back, close his eyes and just breath. </p><p>
  <span>In through the nose, out through the mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, I’m truly boned now, as it were.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In through the nose, out through the mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t step foot outside or… That will get me immediately.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In through the nose, out through the mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But the Watcher in here has yet to do anything.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, Martin opens his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ceiling above him is towering and ornate. Plaster leafing curls in the corners, and an aged metal chandelier hangs directly above him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one final breath, Martin forces himself to his feet. He dusts himself off, then finally observes the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The foyer is a majestic mess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was surely once a sight to behold, but the current occupant evidently has other matters on his mind. The checkered tiles on the floor are gray with dust, vines curl themselves around the bannister framing the grand staircase, and on the ground by the walls lie hundreds upon hundreds of books. Leather-bounds, scrolls, handwritten, mass-produced—books of every size, author, and genre. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The books disorient him; for a moment, he forgets that he’s entered a beast’s lair. Thin white curtains blow in a soft breeze and Martin slowly makes his way over to the pile on the left. A small book lies a distance away from the rest, the worn golden patterns on the front suggesting it had been well-loved. He picks it up, reading the title aloud: “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Frankenstein.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is not a library intended for the general public,” a voice sounds from by the door, making Martin yelp and toss the book to the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t take kindly to strangers throwing my books around,” the voice adds, bristling with weary irritation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin briskly moves his way away from the wall and back towards the center of the room; he feels like a novella cliché when he demands, “Show yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. “You break into </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> home and now choose to make demands of me? Seems rather brash.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t like me in your home, then you’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>kindly</span>
  </em>
  <span> allow me to exit it,” Martin replies, head turning as he searches for the monster. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Monsters aren’t in the business of just letting people go, as it were.” It’s blunt. Condescending. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I know how you work,” Martin says in a tone that definitely does not confer the confidence he was hoping it would. “I know how to get past you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then please,” the monster says, his voice moving ever so slightly closer. “By all means.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wards from Martin’s childhood drift through his mind. It’s been so long since he’s thought about them—since he’s cared. He can’t remember the words to the one fail-safe chant, he doesn’t have a flame on hand, he—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a gasp, he claps a hand over his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a heavy silence in the foyer, before the confused voice bounces off the stones: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin stands perfectly still, eyes squeezed shut and hand still over his face. “I, um. I was told that you feed by looking people in the eye. So I’m, y’know. Averting my eyes. And what-not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another pause. Then a tired chuckle:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s… that’s absolute rubbish, quite frankly,” the monster scoffs. “Is that what the village elders are telling people these days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling a pang of annoyance break through his fear, Martin drops his hand to his side but keeps his eyes closed. “How on earth am I to know that ward is rubbish? Why am I supposed to believe </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it’s rubbish?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monster starts to say something, interrupting himself with a hesitant noise. Then: “I suppose you shouldn’t. But for what little it’s worth, my eyes don’t hold any immediate power. They’re… accessories, for the most part.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This makes Martin crack open an eye once more. But the room is still empty. Moonlight streams in through the large windows and stains the checkered floors in deep shades of blue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin thinks for a moment before hesitantly speaking. “I hate to say it, but I would have thought you'd have done something to me, by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right on cue, the door behind him closes with a resounding thud and Martin spins on his heel—there’s still no one there. Just dark, dark shadows. He turns back around towards the staircase, taking a cautious step backwards as he does so: towards the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re lucky, you know,” the voice says. It echoes from all angles, impossible to pinpoint. “I just got back from Collecting, and in all honesty…  I’m rather tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another step backwards. “‘Collecting?’ Is that what you call what you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice seems to get closer. “What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> it that I do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step. “You—you </span>
  <em>
    <span>feed. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You pull nightmares from the depths of people’s minds and you let them run rampant. You thrive off </span>
  <em>
    <span>misery</span>
  </em>
  <span>, off </span>
  <em>
    <span>terror</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even closer: “But does that mean I </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoy</span>
  </em>
  <span> it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step. “You—you’re a monster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice almost seems to sound from inside his head, soft and wistful. “That’s a given.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hot breath warms the back of Martin’s neck and he startles, bolting back to the base of the stairs before he stumbles and falls to the floor. Arms quickly push himself upright, legs pushing him backwards until his back hits the base of the first step. He forcibly pushes and pulls air in and out of his lungs and he squints, trying to see into the blackness in front of the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something—no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, peels themself from the shadows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s first thought is that he’s shockingly human. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The form in front of him is distinctly humanoid: an angular, hunched torso with a head and two slender arms and legs. Wild black hair streaked with white and copper skin pockmarked with pink scar tissue. An aged pair of round reading frames, in the process of sliding down the bridge of his nose. An off-white collar pokes out from under his black overcoat, and his shoes are muddy but well-kept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves in a manner that suggests tiredness. Slow, deliberate motions, with feet that drag along the floor and hands that dangle wearily at his sides. It’s not predatory; it’s the pace of a beast that knows he’ll catch his prey eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as he gets closer, the true horror of the Watcher comes to light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Row upon row of eyes peer down at him—in shades natural and fantastical, sizes large and small, activity alert and lazy. They blink in a disharmonious wave and Martin closes his own momentarily, in an attempt to stave off the wave of nausea that washes over him at the sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Watcher seems unfazed by his reaction. Instead, he continues to move closer, halting a mere few feet away with his hands clasped behind his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I said: you’re lucky,” he says with subtle force. “I won’t be Collecting again for the night. Or for a few weeks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin, for a heartbeat, allows himself to hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So…” he says weakly. “I can leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few too many eyes blink back in response, and Martin swallows hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Softly:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” The monster sounds disappointed as he says it, leaning back. “No, I don’t think you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>keep</span>
  </em>
  <span> people here,” Martin tries. “You… Collect. And then you release them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you honestly think I haven’t kidnapped or killed before?” the monster contests. “You know the fates of the people in your village, but what about those outside it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Watcher takes a small step backwards, beginning to pace a slow line back and forth in front of Martin. His hands stay clasped behind his back, but Martin senses danger in the reddening of the beast’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People wander in here all the time, both knowingly and unknowingly,” the monster continues. “There are appearances to be maintained. I value my quiet, up here. I have no qualms with crushing courageous cockroaches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hope putters out inside Martin just as quickly as it arose. But his survival instinct, somewhere deep inside his chest, kicks in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll work for you, then,” he offers, the idea manifesting in his mind before he can sift through its moving parts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This makes the monster pause and laugh; a small, dismissive smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Work for me? Doing what? Capturing people? Interior decor—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have books, right?” Martin interjects, eyes flitting around the disorganized heaps littering the walls. “Written records? Unsorted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monster is silent, the faint smile slipping from his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a librarian,” Martin finishes breathlessly. “I’m good at organizing things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only one half of that statement is true, and Martin prays that the beast can’t distinguish a half-truth from a whole one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monster pauses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can find things perfectly fine, here,” he says. Faint insult runs under his words. “I just Know where what I’m looking for is, and then I go retrieve—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long does it take you to dig through the piles, though?” Martin says. “Do you nearly get buried in a landslide of books, every time you go looking? No, I can make it easier. Let me </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span> you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lines crease the monster’s forehead as he stares down at Martin. Cogs turn inside his head, then:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me Look at you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A heartbeat: “You… </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> looking at me—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” the Watcher says, crouching in front of Martin. “Let me </span>
  <em>
    <span>Look</span>
  </em>
  <span> at you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then... he Looks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a subtle sensation, at first. Like static under Martin’s skin. It starts in his fingers and toes and then flows upwards, sinking deeper in until the static is in his marrow. In his stomach, in his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then it becomes less static and more stabbing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pressure builds behind his eyes and it’s the pain of a migraine paired with the jab of a thousand needles, wedded to the boiling of his blood inside his brain. The pain is white and hot and dark and aching and all-encompassing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whining fills his ears and bleaches his brain and his life and his history and his thoughts and his feelings are being laid out bare and no one will know or care that he’s a goner and the splitting tension in his head is enough to drive anyone insane and quite honestly he’d love to die right about now and the only person that’s ever truly Known him is this fiend in this decrepit castle and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The static blinks out and Martin collapses backwards onto the step, chest heaving. A sea of eyes watch him with all the emotion of a statue, and Martin wants desperately to take a sharp object to each and every one of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You resisted me,” the Watcher says bluntly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I? Sorry, I haven’t got much practice with </span>
  <em>
    <span>mind-probing</span>
  </em>
  <span> before.” Martin retorts, the slow-fading pain enough to make him forget to curb his tongue. “Did you get what you needed, or do you want to go for round two before you gut me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mellowly, ignoring Martin’s question: “Yes. I got what I needed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monster also seems drained by the performance; with a sigh and a heavy hand on the bannister, hoists himself back up to his feet. Martin merely watches, eyes wild.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have plans for you,” the monster announces in a monotone, turning away. He adjusts the collar of his jacket absentmindedly. “You will stay here and help me sort the Archives. I will share more information with you later during your employment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My </span>
  <em>
    <span>employment?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Martin echoes, baffled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have a better term for it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, ‘employment’ implies some sort of payment—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Martin Blackwood,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” the monster snaps, the usage of his name halting Martin mid-sentence. “I Know you, but I have not consumed you. Tread carefully, or else </span>
  <em>
    <span>I will.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Now: get up,” the monster instructs. “And I will guide you to your quarters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he shakily hoists himself to his feet, the odd procession makes its way up the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the castle is in a similar state to that of the foyer: dust, cobwebs, and books. Faded tapestries, fraying carpets, and books. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There should be clothes within the wardrobe,” the monster informs him as they walk. His pace is faster than before—more upright and business-like. “Most of the wardrobes in here are still full, given that the castle was vacated in a hurry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will be expecting you in the foyer at sunrise. There, we will begin our organizational education.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You may also notice, and perhaps take hope, from the fact that your room does not have a lock. The reason for this is simple: I have no need for locks,” the monster says. “I have an immediate escape alert system and know exactly what path a guest would be attempting, right as they attempt it. Bear that in mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beat, then a final nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They finally reach the room and the monster follows Martin in, watching as he takes in the sights of his new room (or rather, prison cell). It’s coated in deep red fabrics and an inch of dust. The glass of the window is covered by a line of bars and Martin finds himself wondering exactly how many people the Watcher has entrapped here, before him.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Watcher sees himself out, filing into the hallway. Martin stands dutifully in the doorframe, waiting for dismissal. Almost as if he was reading Martin’s mind:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel the need to inform you: the Watcher is a misnomer,” the monster adds as an aside. “That’s who—or rather, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> I serve. You’re correct in that the Watcher </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> watch your village, in a sense, but… no, I myself am merely a humble servant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin stares, hand clenched around the doorframe. “Okay. You’re not the Watcher. So, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose the best title for me would be ‘the Archivist,’” the monster finally answers in a tone that suggests the name is foreign to his own ears, as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Archivist,” Martin repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monster nods, slowly moving off into the darkened hallway. “Now: goodnight. And don’t leave your quarters.” He glances over his shoulder, the torchlight deepening the dark purple bags under his numerous eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you do, I’ll Know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin closes the door, but he still feels the Eye’s unblinking stare burning a hole in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels it coursing through his blood as he softly pads his way to the dusty bed and slides under the covers. He feels it sliding down his spine as he squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to sleep, as he internally pleads his heart to slow its persistent canter. He feels it forming manacles around his wrists and weights around his ankles as he curls inwards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turns out, he will continue to feel the Eye for a long, long time. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi!! i was intimidated to write for TMA and then i just made myself get over it because i wanted to write something for it so, so badly!!!! so yeah, bear with me while i work out characterization and all that jazz; i hope this was a respectable first stab. (also @ the number of times martin falls over in this chapter: we stan one klutzy king.) title is from the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKRDTUwdVWg%E2%80%9D&gt;son%20lux%20song">son lux song, "dangerous,"</a> give it a listen!</p><p>i have future ideas for this and i've been BIG on TMA for a bit, so follow-up chapters will almost certainly happen! no promises on how soon, but. i typed this chapter *much* faster than i usually do—so who knows how quickly other chapters might get pushed out? not me lol</p><p>my tumblr is <a href="http://thelonely.tumblr.com/">thelonely</a>—feel free to shoot any comments, questions, etc. my way! </p><p>and as always, thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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